


Having

by ReyloTrashCompactor (NextToSomething)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Awkward Sexual Situations, Consensual, Drinking, F/M, Fantasy Fulfillment, Hero Worship, Table Sex, Vaginal Fingering, also sort of, but really uncomfortable, let's pretend the trip to Takodana took a while, not necessarily meant to be sexy, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 16:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8541124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NextToSomething/pseuds/ReyloTrashCompactor
Summary: En route to Takodana, Rey and Han Solo share a drink, among other things.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to warn you now, this isn't a call to ship Rey/Han. This was something that I felt compelled to write, so I wrote it. If uncomfortable, not completely sober, May/December sex is something that isn't for you, I wouldn't recommend this. This was something of a meditation for me, reflecting on some past and personal experiences. This has been a rough week for me and this really helped.
> 
> A huge thank you to PoliticalMamaDuck for helping me whip this into shape. Thank you sister, for everything.

Rey has never slept in a bed that wasn’t her own. At least, not that she can remember. And the narrow bunk in the _Millennium Falcon_ feels about the same as her pallet in her AT-AT, so she should be able to sleep. But she can’t. She’s not on Jakku, where she should be. She’s on the _Millennium Falcon_ , _**the Millennium Falcon**_ , with Finn, the Resistance hero and Han Solo. Han Solo, the smuggler, the war hero.

And she can’t sleep, because she’s never been away from Jakku before and her family might come for her and she won’t be there. 

She turns over, wondering how much longer until they reach Takodana. She pulled the compressor from the hyperdrive, but the old ship is still flying slower than it should be. It’s all taking longer than it should and she’s going to be away from Jakku that much longer.

Finn stirs in the bunk above her, sleeping but restless. And Rey finally can’t stand it any longer. She stands up, not bothering to put her wraps back on, or her shoes. She walks down the hall toward the cockpit, thinking that maybe the flash of the passing universe will lull her into sleep and make this all go by faster.

She wasn’t expecting to see Han sitting in the pilot’s seat, a drink dangling from his hand. Chewie isn’t around and she wonders if Han’s even awake. He shifts, lifting the drink and taking a long pull, as if answering her. He fiddles with something on the console, absently, as if he’s done it a thousand times. And maybe he has. He and this ship have been around for a long time.

She ought to go back to bed and leave him in peace, but the thought of stretching out on that stiff cot makes her shoulders tense. Lying idle is nothing new to her, but this time she’s not where her family last left her. On Jakku, she seemed to do nothing but look for garbage that was worth more than other garbage on the off chance that someone wanted to buy it and keep her fed for another day. But at least there she was in the place where she needed to be. Now she was idle and a million lightyears away.

She knocks softly on the doorway leading to the cockpit, hoping Han won’t send her away. He startles a bit, apparently lost in thought, and she regrets bothering him when she sees the faraway and almost sad look on his face. But he stands from the chair and turns fully toward her.

“Hey, kid,” he says, his drink sloshing a bit when he takes a step toward her.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Rey says.

“Nah, ‘s fine.” He looks a bit sleepy though Rey thinks it’s likely more the drink than anything else. “Need something?”

Rey shakes her head. “I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”

Han nods. “I can’t sleep in strange places either. Let me pour you a glass; that’ll help.”

He walks to the small cabinet next to the dejarik table and pulls out another glass that doesn’t match his and fills it with ice. The bottle he pulls out is dusty and vaguely murky looking. 

“I’d say that this was some finely aged liqueur, but it’s honestly just something that was in here the last time I had the _Falcon._ So, it’s aged, just...not fine.”

 

“I don’t care,” Rey says as she takes the glass, and maybe it’s the truth. She’s never had alcohol before. She takes a tentative sip and her eyes water. It’s sweet and thick, not what she expected, and so, so hot down her throat. 

Han’s watching her and she takes another gulp, too large and she’s coughing.

“I like you, kid,” he says before plunking back down in the pilot seat. 

He doesn’t indicate that she sould sit down next to him at the console, but he also doesn’t send her away, so she sits stiffly in the chair next to him. The leather is old and cracked, and it creaks as she settles into the large seat. 

He’s silent for a long time, not drinking his drink, before he finally asks, “What’s on Jakku?”

She’s been expecting this question. Finn had asked her earlier, and she’d said the same: “Nothing.”

“Then why are you so set on going back?”

“The promise of an eventual something?” she ventures, but it sounds stupid.

Han snorts. “Pretty words, but you can say better than I can at how good words are at putting food on the table.” He looks at her. Really looks at her. “You’re a scrawny little thing. You’re tall enough, but I think I could see through you if you didn’t have any clothes on.”

His words make her blush and she looks down into her glass. He doesn’t apologize, and she has a feeling like he’s one of those that any apology would be sarcastic at best. So maybe it’s better that he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything more, though.

He finishes his drink and pours himself another one, bringing the bottle over to the console when he comes back. Rey tops off her own drink and Han raises his eyebrows into his as he takes a pull. 

“I like you, kid,” he says again and she likes him too, she thinks.

He’s Han Solo, after all, and people still talk about him. Not just about his great feats against the Empire with a Princess and a Jedi, or his daring hauls that most smugglers would never attempt, but of what he still gets up to. He’s a legend, and yet still a force to be reckoned with. And she thinks she likes him. She knows that she likes the fact that he likes her.

Rey takes another long pull from her drink, marveling at how the cold liquor can so thoroughly warm her. She feels a fuzziness in her ears and her body moving more easily, like her joints would give just a bit more than before.

Han leans over and flicks the bottommost of her buns, a soft repetitive movement that makes her skin feel oddly tight and hot.

 

“You wear your hair a bunch of different ways, kid?” he asks. His finger catches on the bun and it falls entirely. His finger trails lightly down her neck when the little loop gives and Rey’s breath sticks in her throat. “You know a bunch of different hairstyles?”

He is flicking the next bun now, and she isn’t entirely sure that he isn’t trying to get it to fall as well. “No,” she answers, her voice sounding odd and breathy. “I only know the one. Why?”

His hand stills for a moment before he purposefully pulls the bun loose. He lets down the top bun as well, and runs not-gentle fingers through her hair, roots to ends. She’s not looking at him, her eyes still looking out over the galaxy speeding by, and even if she were, she doesn’t think he’d be really seeing her.

“You just remind me of someone, is all,” he says. He’s doing clumsy, half-hearted things with her fallen hair. Knotting half of it in his fist and holding it in a ball over her ear. Dropping it and pulling it into a queue and trying something else. “She could do a million things with her hair. Different every time I saw her.”

He sounds far away and when she looks over at him, he does this smile that only uses half of his mouth.

“I like the consistency of one style though. Seems like a guy would know what to expect when he comes calling on ya.”

She blushes and scrubs at her cheeks. Her hand reaches for her fallen hair when he leans away, feels the odd kinks from her row of buns, feels the stiffness from sand and her own not-quite-cleanness.

Han is still looking at her like he sees someone else, and she half wishes he’d stop, and half wants to be a girl who would have the time to experiment with her hair. To surprise a lover with a new style every day. To not wear her hair exactly the same on the possibility that her family might finally come back for her and only recognize her by it.

It’s an odd thought, and she shakes it from her head before taking another sip of her drink. It’s her last sip, she decides, because she feels loose, like a ball of string with its thread pulled out of its middle, not quite unwound, but soft and messy. Her hair is down and Han Solo is looking at her and he’s put down his drink, too.

“You should go to bed, kid,” he says. And he’s right. They haven’t moved, but something has shifted and Rey should go to bed before whatever has shifted topples over.

“I’m--I’m still not tired.”

Han looks at her, perhaps seeing _Rey_ for a moment, not the woman with a million different hairstyles, and gives her a grave nod.

“Come here.”

She crawls loose-limbed and clumsy into his lap and she’s not entirely sure what to do. But he does, and he places steady hands at her hips, settling her down on him in a way that makes her wonder if he’s had a girl in this chair before. She’s shaking, a nervous energy making her teeth chatter like she’s cold, but she’s not cold. He takes his hands from her hips and runs them soothingly up and down her bare arms, fingers toying with the tan lines marked by where she usually wears her wraps. He leans forward, and kisses her high on the arm, right where brown and white meet. Rey shudders. 

She’s almost sure she wants this, squirms on his lap until he makes a pained little noise and he cants his hips an inch. She wants it, she’s just nervous about wanting it. She knows she’s young and he’s old and that it’s probably half the appeal of this. But she feels like her skin is too small for her body, taut and itching. And he’s kissing her arm again. She can feel that it's been a while since he's shaved as he exhales a hot breath over her skin. She can feel--

Rey's hands are shaking as they come to rest on Han’s chest. He nips softly at her arm and her teeth start chattering again. 

“What do you like?” he asks, his mouth trailing to her shoulder. He moves the strap of her undershirt over and kisses lightly at the skin beneath it.

 _I like_ that, she thinks. “I--I like…”

Han moves a hand to cup her between her legs and her inhale is sharp. But she nods, almost frantic. 

He remains in control, however, his movements slow and measured, as if to not startle her. He pulls her undershirt from her body and settles large, worn hands at her middle. It’s a strange sensation, his hands rough from decades of hard use, laid strangely gentle at possibly the only soft part of her left, her skin there the color of sun-bleached bone though the sun has never touched her belly at all. His thumbs run small circles on her skin and his eyes are focused somewhere below her neck.

“Am I see-through?” Rey asks through her shakes.

Han chuckles, his eyes not moving. “Nah, kid. I can see you just fine.” His head dips then and he takes a nipple between his lips. Presses. Pinches. Rey jerks, sighing, then moaning, and he opens his mouth and gathers in her entire breast--because he can, because that’s how small she is. He rolls his tongue against her and Rey’s body mirrors the movement, though she’s still oddly suspended before and over him and not really rolling against anything.

He moves his hand to touch her between her legs, rides through that initial startle of her body, then dips his hand inside her pants. Cups her again. He covers all of her and his hand is cool where she is so, so hot. A finger dips between, and then she can feel just how wet she’s gotten.

It’s considerable, even though she’s nervous. 

Han rests his forehead on her collarbone, and his voice is almost all grit when he says, “You feel good--”

The “kid” remains unspoken, because she’s not a kid right now. What they are doing is not playing, though it feels like a game. Like there could be winners and losers. But he hooks this finger inside of her, drags that rough fingertip up and down the textured skin at the very start of her. She feels almost like she needs to pee, but it’s a good feeling, and one that is quickly overcome by another when he adds a second crooked finger and presses at this certain spot. She feels full, stretched, and yet her body is trying to grasp him more firmly.

She gasps.

“Like that?” he asks, moving faster, harder. Deeper. It should hurt, she thinks, the thing his fingers are doing to her. He’s being indelicate and almost rough, but her softhotwet seems almost made for it. And it seems like he knows better than she does what her body is capable of taking. He’s old, so old, and she is so, so young.

“Yeah,” she says, but it’s a squeak, because that feeling of needing to pee is back and getting worse and what if she wets herself on top of him? Her body starts to spasm and she shakes her head.

“Please stop, I think I’m going to--” she doesn’t want to say it. _Piss on you_ is the last thing she wants to say to Han Solo.

He stops immediately, but his fingers stay where they are. Her body protests, her hips bucking and trying to keep that feeling going, but she can’t--

“You don’t want to--?” He sounds surprised, almost worried, and her body shudders against him again, her hips rocking. But he doesn’t move.

“I-I think…” Rey swallows, a twitch running through her and she can feel the exact shape of his fingers inside her. “I think I should use the ‘fresher,” she says in a whisper as small as she feels.

“Oh, Rey…” Han sighs, as if what she said hurt him, and he moves his fingers just a fraction inside of her. “It’s supposed to--” 

Rey moans, the feeling striking her all over again as he shows her and she rocks into it. Her body wants it, _she wants it,_ but--

She pulls herself from him, wraps her arms around her chest, and half runs to the little ‘fresher off the cabin. She relieves herself, surprised that she didn’t need to go as much as she thought, then stands, shirtless, in front of the mirror. 

She’s never had a mirror, even one as small and dingy as this one, that wasn’t cracked at least a little. They rarely made it through impact in the fallen starships, but the few she’d seen somewhat intact always skewed and faceted her reflection. Breaking her into pieces.

She’s whole in this one, though. Han’s left a little mark on her, so small that she might have missed it were it not on the pale skin that’s usually protected under her clothes. A stippled little purple thing; a bruise just beneath her collarbone. She touches it, but it doesn’t hurt like bruises ought. 

Rey walks back to the console, where Han has finished his drink and shattered hers. The hand that was working her is now gripping his thigh and there are wet streaks darkening the fabric of his pants beneath his first two fingers.

“Go to bed, kid,” he says, but she takes off her pants and climbs back into his lap anyway, replaces his hand where it was. He tears it away but crushes her to him, shaking and cursing and breathing so heavy. He kisses her cheek, her neck, her dirty hair.

Not her mouth.

Rey palms him through his pants and he shakes harder, gritting some word from between his teeth that’s breathy and melodic and all soft vowels.

“--eya..”

He won’t bring his hand back to her, only crushes Rey into his body as he breathes this hot word into her hair and across her scalp. Rey rubs him again, her arm caught between them and Han pulls her hair. It hurts.

“What do you like?” she asks, quietly, hopefully, as if she could give it to him, and he picks her up suddenly, walking as if carrying her weight is easy, and lays her down on the dejarik table. Rey’s back arches-- _the table is cold--_ but her legs spread and Han stands between them.

He looks down at her, naked and sprawled on the table and Rey would give a week's rations to know what he's thinking. He won't tell her, of course. She's only known him a few hours, but she knows that well enough. So she sits up and undoes his belt, his button, his fly. 

She knows what _she's_ thinking, and she's thinking that she wants this. Rey doesn't know to what end or even why she wants it, but she knows that, for once, she wants something, _and she’s able to have it._ She doesn’t care that he sees Eya when he looks at her. He’s looking at her, and that’s all that matters right now.

 _Eya_ sounds an awful lot like _Rey_.

She takes him in hand and he groans, a deep and scratchy sound. Leans forward and rests his hands on either side of her hips, bringing his face to again bury in her loose hair. She runs light fingers up and down, not entirely sure what to do, but then he takes a jerking step forward, bumping the table and nudging his cock against her. So she moves, positions, sits back a bit and arches and-- _ah._

It feels different than his fingers, less angles and more imprecise. Fuller. Deeper.

It feels good.

She gradually lays down as he starts to move, and he follows her, face in her hair, elbows on the table. Slow and shallow feels good until it doesn’t and Rey wraps her arms around his neck and tries to pull him deeper. Han seems to pay attention to the cues of her body and does what she wants, but his movements are getting jerky, short grunts mixing hard and choppy with his breath. Rey feels good, but not as good when it was his fingers and she thinks she’ll miss whatever it is that Han was trying to give her.

Then he picks up a hand, swipes his thumb through the sweat gathering between her small breasts, and pressesnudgesrubs that hard little point of her between her legs and she feels it flooding her. It feels like warm water washing over her, starting at the perimeters of her body and flowing inward. She bucks against Han, clutching at his back, thinking detachedly that she is completely naked and he is completely clothed and yet they are experiencing the same thing. So disparate in so many ways, and yet both unraveling under a shared pleasure. Then she can’t think at all, her body and mind focused only on that sweet ache where his thumb is pressed and his cock is twitching. And the feeling of her body like a tightly clenched fist finally releasing.

He pulls out of her suddenly, spilling hot and messy on her stomach and over the fabric of his own shirt. Rey looks down to watch, oddly fascinated by the strange things a body does when given reign to do so. Mesmerized m=by what his pleasure and release looks like.

He shudders as it finishes and Rey is suddenly heavy with exhaustion, her shaking arms losing their grip all at once and she collapses toward the cold table top. Han surprises her, and catches her limp body before she makes contact, trying awkwardly to take her in his arms. His arm only manages to hook under one of her knees and her other leg trails the floor a bit as he stumbles them back into the pilot seat.

He flops back unceremoniously, chest heaving, and Rey feels almost silly laid naked across his lap. The stuff on his shirt is cold and wet against her side and he catches sight of her stomach. Han pulls a shirt tail from beneath her thigh to wipe at the mess, but this only uncovers where his pants are still undone and that hot skin still slick with _Rey_ presses into her hip and behind. 

His shirt isn’t very absorbent and he gives up wiping at her sticky skin.

When he looks at her, he looks more tired than when she found him, and sad on top of it. She’s holding herself up awkward and stiff against the armrest, but she looks right back at him. 

“I like you, kid,” he says a final time, though his face is pained and his already jagged voice is completely shot. He leans forward, and Rey thinks he’s going to kiss her, but he doesn’t, not on the mouth, anyway. He dodges away and won’t look at her and kisses her high on the cheek. 

As if kissing her lips is a boundary he just can’t cross, even after fucking her.

It’s time to get dressed, she decides. She looks at him while she does, doesn’t hide her body and doesn’t shy away from how Han watches the way her clothes go back on with an interest she just can’t fathom. He tucks himself away, straightening and wiping absently at his wet shirt.

“I’m...going to bed,” she says, and imagines for one moment Han following her, tucking himself, large and stiff jointed, into the narrow bunk with her and going to sleep. It’s a nice thought, one that makes this whole thing seem less surreal and more grounded. But he won’t; she knows that.

She can’t imagine what Finn would do if he found him there.

“Get some sleep,” Han says, looking earnest. “We’ll be there in a few hours, and Maz’ll wear you out.”

She nods. She can’t say much else. It’s becoming real, what she did with him, that Han Solo was inside of her only minutes before. 

So she leaves, and climbs into her bunk by herself. She feels oddly satisfied and lonely all at once. When he offers her a job the next day, she knows it has very little to do with what they did the night before. It’s mostly about giving her something that’s permanent, and fully realized; somewhat honest work and an escape from the _nothing_ on Jakku.

But she can’t take it, all the same. Rey’s still wondering if having is just as empty and going without, if Han felt any better for having someone who wasn’t Eya instead of living with the absence. 

It’s not until she watches the sparking red blade pierce Han Solo front to back that she knows, in no uncertain terms, that going without will never be enough again.

**Author's Note:**

> Please take a moment to tell me your thoughts. :)


End file.
